Disclaimer: Hellsing was created by Hirano Kouta, and is copyrighted by Gonzo/Pioneer
LDC. The Shadow was created by Walter Gibson; its characters are copyrighted
by Conde Nast Publications. Doc Savage was created by Lester Dent (a.k.a Kenneth
Robeson), Conde Nast Publications, and Bantam Books.

Chapter 5: Diogenes

"Why do I keep on doing this?" That was the question on Harold Lister's
lips as he pushed
through into the Diogenes Club's employee section.

"Because no one else would take you?"
Jack Wildman's rejoinder stung since it was rather close to the
truth. Lister was not exactly top-grade material for a servant. Almost
every household he had been in had eventually thrown him out. Only in
Diogenes, where eccentricity was the norm, had Harry stayed on for more
than six months.

"Sod off, Jack."

Wildman only chuckled. "What is it this time, Harry? Having difficulty
with sign
language?"

Harry Lister's primary problem with the Club was that the
hundred year rule of silence still held. Club members used a strange
form of sign language that was like no other in the world, finger
twiddlings mixed with strange positions in the air all with the speed
of telegraph operators.

"No. Some bloke came into the Stranger's Room and requested a
second-story."

Jack whistled appreciatively. One of those.
"Second-story" was the euphemism that the servants used to call
the second floor of the Diogenes Club, probably the most secretive
place in the entirety of London. Visitors had come and gone in strange
hours to that mysterious place and almost always something happened in
the newspapers.

"So what's the problem then? You've dealt with folks like that
since you've arrived. You just don't talk about it."

"This particular egg's kind of hard not to talk about. Heard of
Cranston?"

Jack blinked.
"Who hasn't? Another reclusive multimillionaire from a line of
reclusive multimillionaires. If you ask me there's something in
American water that makes all of 'em go bonkers. Pfah, give me good
decent English nobility anyday."

"Well, make three guesses who the bloke off the street was and
the first two are wrong."

"You don't mean Cranston was the fellow who requested a second-
story?"

"That's what I mean. Couldn't believe it myself, but that's
what the card from the Cobalt Club says."

Jack whistled another long low whistle. Harry was always
irritated by it, since it had that slight trilling tone that made it
sound like Wildman was imitating a bird or something. But he agreed
with the sentiment. The Cobalt Club was America's Diogenes, though he
had heard it was plenty more relaxed than it was here.

"So what's this Cranston bloke look like?" There was a
strange glow in Wildman's eyes when he asked the question. Lister could
almost see the golden flecks in Jack's eyes dancing around. But, that
must have just been a trick of the light.

"If you want to find out, you just look, Wildman. You got leave
to go up the second-story, I don't."

"Well, you'll see him sooner or later. But trust me, be ready
for the fright of your life."

"Why's that?"

Eyes that held a strange lambent glow, like a predator's a
pale thin hawk face like a mask, as if there was another face beneath.
Harry shook himself and looked up at the taller man's gold-flecked
eyes.
"Trust me, Jack. Even you'd be frightened."

The Star Chamber of the Diogenes Club was probably the safest
place in all of London. It was guarded by the best that money could buy
and was protected by several structural safeguards from any natural or
unnatural disaster. All of its occupants had weathered many adventures
of their own and faced death in various encounters. But when the entity
calling itself Kenneth Clarke Cranston entered, all six members of
Diogenes' head council felt a tremble of fear.

"I apologize. Forgot about that."

The fear disappeared like it wasn't there. Sir Gerald Tarrant
narrowed his eyes. The being before him never forgot. It just wanted to
remind them of who had power here.

"No worry, old boy. Have a cigar." There was a smile on the
lips of the corpulent Duke de Richelieu, it seemed to be traditional
for a fat man to be on the council, as he sent a cigar flying towards
their guest. Cranston plucked it out of the air with skill.

"Ah. Forgot. Here's a lighter." Another flick of the wrist. De
Richelieu was deadly in his own manner, and the being before them
caught a bright object. The closed hand began to smoke. The duke looked
so apologetic that Tarrant almost bought it himself.
"Sorry about that. I am getting forgetful in my old age."

Cranston arched an eyebrow as he held up his smoking hand and
lit the cigar with the offered light. Holding it up, the lighter
glistened in the dim light.
"Silver. Touché, duke." Then flung it back in a slow, languid
manner. The duke caught it deftly and Gerald thought for a moment that
he would stand up and bow.

"Now that we've established pack dominance, shouldn't we be
getting to business?" The clear voice of Miranda Mitchison was droll.
Being the only woman to have ever successfully been admitted into the
club, she always managed to rebuke her co-members into submission. She
was technically MI-5, but the triple-digit division and the letter
branches had always answered to Diogenes in the end. She reminded him
of a tougher Modesty, another surrogate child that he had outlived.

"Oh, hush, Miranda. Can't you see we're just being friendly to
the bloke?" That was Howard Blakeney, needling Miranda again. If this
were a schoolyard, I'd say those two were attracted to each other,
Tarrant smugly thought. Blakeney had mastered the art of playing the
fop, but those delicate hands of his had killed more men for Queen and
Country than all the other members combined. He was currently answering
Miranda's glare with a relaxed, almost sleepy look.

"Strange name to use, Mr. Allard," John Steed — another former
field agent — declared, using the name that he knew the entity before
them by, as he looked over the card that the being before them had
presented downstairs. "'Kenneth Clarke" indeed. Any idea of where
that
particular contemporary of yours is?"

"In the company of another Doctor in a police call-box, I
believe."

Vagueness and obscurity, it seemed, was still the order of the
day.

"Ah, yes. The legendary police call-box. If I had a penny for
how many times I have to listen to Lethbridge-Stewart " Brigadier
General Liam Hannay just shook his snowy mane. The general looked at
Cranston with a jaundiced eye. "So, what brings the world's greatest
detective to our humble quarters?"

The hawkish face smiled. In the dim light, the shadows around him
seemed to swim and ripple. The hand, girasol ring shifting color
from blue to violet to red, ran through black hair, smoothing it
back. Red eyes glowed faintly, in rhythm with the crimson tip of
the smoking cigar in the mouth. The silence was thick enough to
cut with a knife. The council's attention was glued to Cranston
as he began, "I have some things I'd like to tell you about."